


ver primo

by neesaan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neesaan/pseuds/neesaan
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi treated his crush on Miya Atsumu like a bad cold he couldn't shake.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	ver primo

**Author's Note:**

> if you squint, this could work for sakuatsu angst week, day six

Sweat blankets Miya’s neck in a thin sheet, droplets running down his shoulders and disappearing under his shirt. Kiyoomi huffs, the humidity in the air taking up so much room in his chest that he has to breathe again, deeper. The shallow depths of his lungs are in no way due to Miya Atsumu and are merely a symptom of July, but even as Kiyoomi skirts his gaze away from his admittedly attractive teammate he knows this to be a lie. 

Days like this were made for Miya: (“ _Call me ‘Atsumu,’” he says on a Tuesday afternoon, his hair melted to his forehead and water dripping down his chin; ‘Atsumu’ has refused to drop the god awful nickname he has christened Kiyoomi with and now the entirety of the team has begun calling him some version of ‘Omi’ as well. “No,” Kiyoomi spits, seething with venom as he begins again: “No, Miya.”)_ Days like this when the summers were long, the sun stretching towards it’s resting place somewhere on the other side of the earth, it’s red and orange and pink remnants cast Miya in a scintillated glow. He’s a statue of ungodly desire and it pricks and spurns Kiyoomi until he’s doubling over again, this time simply for something to do besides stare at Miya while he hangs from the top of the door frame, pulling himself into a few curl ups. Everyone knows about Miya Atsumu’s thighs, Kiyoomi included ( _he still hasn’t figured out that near impossible backbend that Miya has only managed to perfect since highschool and every time the setter performs it, Kiyoomi finds himself on the court and the furthest mindset he could possibly be in from observing it.)_ but there was something mesmerizing about Miya’s hands, from the round muscular joints of his knuckles to the precise, dedicated points of his fingertips. 

He manages three curls before Bokuto runs him through, runs him outside, lifting Miya Atsumu like a sack of potatoes and not like the 180 pounds of solid muscle that he is.

“Bokkun!” Atsumu screams, but it’s an act - he loves the attention and Kiyoomi knows it, sees the telltale gleam of pride in his eyes, the way his cheeks flame up when Hinata leaps and pivots six feet into the air to jump on top of both of them. Kiyoomi expects Bokuto to hit the ground and injure them all in the name of _fun and games_ but he is disappointed and not for the first time today: Bokuto, the monster of a man, half carries, half drags Hinata and Miya into an area of grass, gently tossing them from his back a loud “WOOHOO!”

Hinata is a ball of fucking sunshine and if July was made for Miya then all of Summer was created for Hinata Shoyo. Kiyoomi can’t help but pick up on subtle cues, at least the subtle cues intended for other people: it’s how the corner of Miya’s mouth somehow gets a little sharper, a single soft dimple petulant in the annoying way it surfaces when Hinata is around. Hinata Shoyo touches Miya in ways Kiyoomi could only imagine _(Yes, imagines, late at night when sleep evades, Kiyoomi could never,_ **_would never,_ ** _imagine kissing Miya, but maybe he’d dream of those hands, deft fingertips grazing over Kiyoomi’s own)._ Hinata cups his elbow and Miya preens, pride evident in his brow, eyes filmed over with affection. 

Kiyoomi wonders what Miya tastes like (Hinata touches him, again and again, so freely: this time he brushes dirt off the corner of Miya’s mouth and Kiyoomi thinks he sees Miya chase Hinata’s thumb with the edge of his canines): is he superficially sweet, a saccharine drip of falsehoods followed quickly by the cling of salt, sharp and all encompassing? Or does Miya taste of fire and ash, filled with a heat so trepid that it leaves you with a skeleton of a skeleton, the frame of what you once were. Maybe, Kiyoomi thinks, watching Hinata and Miya laughing, teeth scraping at his own bottom lip, maybe it’s neither and Miya Atsumu tastes exactly like looks: glass lined with snow covered window panes, equally as frigid and breakable as he is vain but toss fragility out of the perviable winter window and what is left? Glass that is now both cold and sharp. 

Miya Atsumu sighs after a bout of laughter, his chest full and gaze light. Kiyoomi is stupid _(Coming to Osaka was stupid, trying out for MSBY was stupid, leaving Ushikawa was - )_ about a lot of things but if he had to pick what shone above the rest ( _he did)_ falling in love with Miya Atsumu was the stupidest.

**🌣**

Autumn arrives slowly; it’s the last Saturday of September and Kiyoomi is getting better at two things: avoiding his own feelings and avoiding Miya Atsumu. The soft, round corner of Kiyoomi’s heart that seems keen on harboring emotions of affection and desire for the MSBY Jackal setter is a dormant rot of betrayal as far as Kiyoomi’s concerned: his methods of compartmentalizing are tantamount to pretending Miya Atsumu does not exist _(easier during off season, Kiyoomi can admit, but not impossible during regular season)_ and Kiyoomi is fully aware he cannot act this way forever. 

“Omi-kun,” Miya growls, proving that Kiyoomi cannot ignore him for much longer than today, apparently. “What the hell is your problem?” he says this in a way that has Kiyoomi’s skin crawling - he’s one to think of himself as sharp, intelligent and observant of other’s needs and habits; Miya speaks to him as if he’s a fucking idiot, over annunciating and nearly spitting across the two feet between them. Two feet too many, apparently, because it’s seconds after Kiyoomi rolls his eyes that Miya has crossed those 24 inches, grabbing Kiyoomi with enough force that the two inch height difference between them is quickly made obsolete because Miya has nearly brought Kiyoomi to his knees using shock value all on it’s own. The setter’s grip is tight around Kiyoomi’s under armor, clenched red and yes, Miya has beautiful hands. Perfectly manicured nails without a hangnail in sight, Miya had exactly the kind of hands that Kiyoomi thought he did. 

Years of disdain for the proximity of others has ingrained itself so thoroughly into Kiyoomi’s patterns it’s practically genetic - he shifts backwards instinctually, chin to his chest and as far away from Miya as the setter’s grip will allow. Miya doesn’t falter, doesn’t even blink. “That was perfect, Omi. Actually, it was the third perfect toss I’ve sent your way!” 

Instincts can only serve someone like Sakusa Kiyoomi well for so long: Kiyoomi smirks. Miya Atsumu yells and tosses Kiyoomi to the ground like the oversized brat he is, with the unabashed immaturity of someone who grew up with a twin and spent most of his life either getting his ass kicked or kicking someone else’s ass. “Why are ya like this?” 

Meian looks their way and glares; it’s not as a big of a deal as Miya made it out to be but the half of their team that is playing as their opponents is staring and staring hard - Bokuto looks over from the other half of the court, his gaze so open he looks wounded. Kiyoomi looks to the ground before he inevitably sees Hinata, sees Hinata looking after Miya. The only explanation for the lack of discipline directed at them is the absence of Coach Foster; he must have stepped out for something or another. 

“Look,” Miya says and Kiyoomi is back to acknowledging his existence a hell of a lot quicker than he wanted to. “I don’t know what yer problem is with me, but figure it out. Please?” 

Kiyoomi sighs. Clocking mentally how Miya Atsumu’s voice carried a soft whine to it, especially when he said the word _please_ is not how he wanted to end the day. “I’ll do my best,” he says curtly, stubborn, obstinate, _frustrated_ gaze glued to the floor. 

_Please?_

“Sakusa, Miya! Get back to work!” 

Kiyoomi stands, brushing the dust off his knee pads. They finish practice without any more incidents, but Miya doesn’t set to him anymore that day and Kiyoomi doesn’t ask for any balls. 

Only when the showers are finally empty does Kiyoomi put away his phone and head to the locker room, keen on avoiding everyone but especially Miya. He’s sweaty and damp all over and it’s a testament to how gross Kiyoomi really feels; for a fraction of a second he considers using the gym showers, but thinks better of it. If he has to take the busiest train home he may as well put off a 45 minute shower until he can truly scrub the trauma and disgust from the day off him, one layer at a time. 

“Sakusa-san,” comes a chirp and Kiyoomi almost slams his finger into his locker. 

Hinata was strange sometimes. It was rare, but there were moments when Hinata seemed to be more than what he appeared, somehow presenting himself as less than what he was. It was none of Kiyoomi’s business, one way or another, but today Hinata was perceptive, intuitive in the way his lips formed a question before the rest of his body could catch up with him. “Are you okay?” 

In reflection, the answer was clearly _no,_ but Kiyoomi chose self preservation over everything and replied, “Yes,” before he could really think too much of it. Hinata made no indication of moving, standing still before Kiyoomi with his bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Then why did you laugh at Atsumu-san today?” 

“What?” is flying out of his mouth before Kiyoomi can really do much to prevent it _(self preservation my ass.)_

“Today, at practice. Atsumu-san asked you if you had a problem and you laughed.” 

Rolling back on the balls of his feet a little, Kiyoomi tugged on the straps of his backpack. 

“I didn’t laugh at Miya.”

“It was the closest thing to a laugh that you have, Sakusa-san.”

If Kiyoomi were the type of person who snorted, he would have. He also wasn’t the type to laugh at people. “I smiled. I did not laugh at Miya.” 

“Okay, Sakusa-san. It looked like you laughed. Why did you smile then?” 

_It hardly seemed appropriate._ Hinata didn’t say it, because he wasn’t the type, but he wanted to. Kiyoomi was intimately familiar with restraining oneself from saying things he wanted to. 

Why did he smile? _‘I don’t know what yer problem is with me, but figure it out! Please?’_

 _Ah_. Miya’s accent stumbled out a little more when he was emotional. It was cute. 

_Please?_

“Miya is funny when he is angry. That’s all,” he lied. 

“Okay. Have a good day, Sakusa-san.” 

Hinata was halfway out the door when Kiyoomi found himself reaching for his teammate. The wing spiker must have felt him, because he turned before Kiyoomi could grab the edge of his sweater. 

“Yes, Sakusa-san?” 

“Why do you touch Atsumu so much?” 

“Because he likes to be touched.” 

Apparently, it was as simple as that. 

And it was, really, as simple as that. Kiyoomi looked at his current life and tried to piece it together as routinely as possible. It was, for him, as simple as washing your hands. 

He treated his crush on Miya Atsumu like a bad cold he couldn’t shake: plenty of fluids _(washing away the dry mouth that came over him whenever Miya was in the same room as him)_ , pain reliever _(to ease the tension around his temples whenever he was forced to interact with him)_ , lots of rest _(it’s exhausting pretending to barely tolerate someone)_ and most importantly to maintain impeccable sanitary health throughout the course of the cold _(showers twice daily, a morning boil to rid his mind of the sleepless night before and an ice bath in the evening to shock the desire right out of him)._

Well, Kiyoomi certainly never admitted to having an easy time washing his hands. 

🙑

It’s cold when Kiyoomi makes it to the starting roster. Several things have happened at this point and it’s a blustery day in December when Kiyoomi decides to tally them up. 

・Miya has become, begrudgingly, Atsumu. Atsumu’s face lights up like fucking Christmas whenever Kiyoomi says his name, be it asking for a toss or scolding him for his trivalties when it comes to dating. 

・It turns out, as Hinata had pointed out, Atsumu does enjoy being touched. Like many others, Miya Atsumu takes comfort in the small brush of shoulders bumping or a clasp to the back after a good toss. 

・It also turns out that Kiyoomi, loathe as he is to admit it, doesn’t hate touching Atsumu. He wishes he did - Kiyoomi wishes and prays from the bottom of his rotten, plump-with-desire heart that he would _hate_ touching Atsumu. 

It’s strange, looking for excuses to be near him after spending so much time trying to be away from him. It’s strange, but fate does a number on Kiyoomi when they lose a match to the Rajins and Atsumu is alone in the parking lot outside their gym. The bus is long gone and so is their team; Kiyoomi had lingered just long enough after his post game routine _(warm down, cool down, stretch)_ to see Bokuto and Hinata attempt to cheer Atsumu up with an outing of sorts _(Kiyoomi has never gone; he pictures udon and beer, pictures Atsumu loosening up with enough liquor and attention)._ Atsumu declines with an easy smile, fake in the way it doesn’t reach his eyes but smooth enough to chastise Hinata, who reluctantly leaves with Bokuto towards their destination. 

“Omi,” Atsumu sees him before Kiyoomi can back away safely - he’s in front of him before Kiyoomi can begin his normal retreat _(five steps away from Atsumu at any given time)._ He looks weird with his gym shorts on, white sneakers and a giant MSBY hoodie thick around his neck. It’s December and Atsumu is dressed like he’s ready for a Saturday morning of Netflix, or training, or maybe another night of torturing Kiyoomi. Who knows what’s on his agenda? Atsumu is close enough for Kiyoomi to spot the goosebumps on his legs, above his socks. His sneakers are very white. 

“Omi,” he says again. “Do you want to hang out?” 

Atsumu rents a studio apartment four blocks from the gymnasium they play at. It’s in the complete opposite direction that Kiyoomi lives in and he now has officially signed himself up for less sleep than usual by placing himself several hours away from his home. The last train for the night left 45 minutes ago and Kiyoomi would pace if there was enough room in Atsumu’s apartment for him to do so. 

Routine is a constant staple in Kiyoomi’s life - do one thing, set your mind to one task, add another to the list, rinse, repeat and if there is time or you still cannot sleep, find another task. It’s both a comfort and a burden here in Atsumu’s apartment - Kiyoomi knows how to set up for dinner, he even goes as far as to admonish Atsumu for his sloppy craftsmanship _(these carrots are too thick, how are they going to cook with the pork if they are the size of potatoes)._ Kiyoomi rinses the sliced vegetables, washes the rice, preps a marinade and turns on the electric kettle before Atsumu can get out of the shower. He’s at a standstill when there’s nothing left to do in this kitchen that does not belong to him. “Yer weird, Omi-kun,” Atsumu whispers, shuffling into the kitchen with damp hair, grabbing the spoon from Kiyoomi’s hand. “Go shower. You stink.” 

Kiyoomi laughs and Atsumu stares at him with shocked eyes; Kiyoomi has to wonder if he’s grown a third arm in the time it took for Atsumu to get out of the shower. Miya Atsumu is distracting enough to keep Kiyoomi from a shower. Another thing to tally.

He grabs his bag and reluctantly steps into Atsumu’s bathroom - he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but a spotless room filled with enough skin care products to put Kiyoomi’s mother to shame definitely wasn’t it. The shower curtain is pinned back carefully and dry; Kiyoomi has to believe that Atsumu was deliberate in his neatness - even the mirror lacked any steam. Two towels are placed carefully on the side of the counter. Atsumu is thoughtful enough to leave travel sized soaps alongside them; it was of little consequence to Kiyoomi, who nearly always traveled with his own set of toiletries. 

He’s in the shower for over 30 minutes by the time Atsumu knocks, yelling over the roar of the water stream to let Kiyoomi know there are clean slippers outside the door. He’s been in there so long there’s hardly any hot water left but the cool pour of the shower jets is a precious distraction from what is waiting for him outside. 

Kiyoomi’s diligence in the kitchen pays off - dinner is not only palatable but delicious, although he suspects that Atsumu may have added a few things _(Atsumu can cook. Another tally)_ while Kiyoomi was bathing. They eat in silence, Atsumu fiddling with his phone while Kiyoomi finishes his dinner, one bite after another until the bowl is empty. He’s chasing a stream of sauce around his plate with his chopsticks when he finally realizes that Atsumu is staring at him, lips pressed in what Kiyoomi assumes is concern. “Yes?” he asks, for lack of anything else to say. Atsumu smiles, his lips curving into a grin a little too sharp for Kiyoomi’s liking. “Nothing. Let’s play smash.”

“I’m more of an ‘animal crossing’ kind of gamer.” Things really keep slipping out of Kiyoomi’s mouth without his permission on a more consistent basis. 

“Cool. You can be Isabelle.” 

It’s pushing ten pm when Atsumu finally sets his controller down _(Atsumu: 21, Kiyoomi: 17)._ Kiyoomi’s been staring at the door for the better part of five minutes, as if a magical solution to him getting home would somehow appear on the other side of the frame once Kiyoomi opened the door. 

“I have a futon, but ya can sleep in my bed if ya want.” 

“Gross.” 

“I can remember when I washed my sheets, two days ago. Can’t say the same for the futon.” 

Kiyoomi, his mouth dry, sits on Atsumu’s bed. 

Atsumu sits next to him. 

“Gross,” he repeats. 

“I didn’t say _I_ was going to use the futon.” 

“I like you,” Kiyoomi spits, laced with venom, ears red. Atsumu is somehow both heaven and hell wrapped into one, but if he had to pick which one he was, Kiyoomi is certain he could.

“I figured as much.” 

“Screw you,” Kiyoomi spits again, less venom. He reaches over Atsumu’s knees, puts a hand on his stupid fucking shorts. They’re fraying at the edge. Kiyoomi can’t believe he owns more than one pair of them. 

“Kiss me,” Atsumu declares, like it’s his god given right to be offered affection from Kiyoomi. 

The longer Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu’s lips the more he thinks it might be. 

⚘

“Don’t touch me,” Kiyoomi bites, shoving Atsumu out of his way and storming down his hallway. His steps are so loud he’s sure the neighbors are going to hear them this time but Kiyoomi is relentless in his rage. “I can’t believe you, Miya.” Atsumu laughs and Kiyoomi seethes, slamming a door behind him. 

“Omi, it was only because I knew you liked me! Or I thought I knew! Don’t be mad at Shoyo-kun!” 

Atsumu follows him into Kiyoomi’s spare bedroom, cornering him in between a leather loveseat and a lamp. Kiyoomi kicks him in the shin. “You’re terrible, Miya.” 

“You’re terrible, Atsumu,” he corrects, standing to his full height and pressing a nimble hand to Kiyoomi’s chest. 

“You’re terrible, _Atsumu.”_

“You like it.” 

Atsumu kisses the corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth, chases the round of Kiyoomi’s lip with his tongue. He’s on his tippy toes and Kiyoomi is _still_ endlessly fond. Atsumu tastes like the beginning, the lush press of his tongue like the ground in spring. Kiyoomi can only grow under his embrace.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> sorry omi
> 
> ohneesaan on twitter


End file.
